Part 29 (1/2)

”I think I can guess something--just something of what it means,” she said to herself. ”My little Judy--my brave little Judy!”

Judy's letter was lying hidden all this time under the large pin-cus.h.i.+on on Hilda's dressing table, but as it was not seen, its contents, which would have explained a good deal, were of course not known.

The dinner which followed this unhappy beginning of the evening was as dismal and constrained as if poor ”trumpery” were still present.

Quentyns, like most men who work hard all day, was particular about this meal, and to-night of all nights cook had not sent up the soup to his satisfaction, nor the _entree_ seasoned to his taste. It was all one to Hilda just now what she ate, but Quentyns pushed his plate impatiently away, and kept on referring to the excellent dinner he had had the night before at the Star and Garter. He spoke of his evening as delightful, and of the house of the new friend where he had slept as altogether irreproachable.

Hilda felt that he was talking at her all the time, but she had not the heart to reply to him. The dismal little meal came to a mournful end, and the two went into the drawing room to wait for Rivers' arrival.

Hilda took up a handkerchief she was embroidering for Judy, and took special pleasure in putting in new and exquisite st.i.tches as her thoughts centered themselves in dull wonder and pain round the child.

Quentyns became absorbed in the contents of a novel. He read for half an hour--he was by no means in a good humor, and now and then his eyes were raised to look over the top of the book at his wife. There was a patient sort of suffering about her which irritated him a good bit, as he could see no possible reason to account for it. He asked her one or two questions, which she answered in an abstracted manner.

No, he certainly had not bargained for this sort of thing when he married. Hilda was not only pretty, but she could be, when she liked, sufficiently intellectual to satisfy his requirements. He was fastidious and had peculiar views with regard to women. He hated the so-called clever women, but at the same time he despised the stupid ones. To please him a woman must have tact--she must quickly understand his many moods. She must sympathize when he demanded sympathy, and when he showed by his manner that he wished to be left alone, she must respect his desires. Hitherto, Hilda had abundantly fulfilled his expectations. If Judy had not been in the house, all that he had ever dreamed of in his married life would have come to pa.s.s. But to-night, although Judy was not there to intermeddle, Quentyns felt that, for all the good his wife was doing him, he might as well be a bachelor at his club.

”My dear,” he said with some impatience, and forgetting himself not a little, ”do you know that you have made precisely the same remark now five times? I did not quarrel with its brilliancy the first time I heard it, but on the fifth occasion I will own that it gave me a certain sense of _ennui_. As I see that your thoughts are miles away, I'll just run round to the club for a bit and find out if there is anything going on.”

Hilda raised her eyes in some surprise. A certain expression in them seemed to expostulate with Jasper, but her lips said nothing; and just at that moment a hansom was heard to bowl up rapidly and stop with a quick jerk at the door. A moment later Rivers entered the drawing room.

He came up at once to Hilda with the air of a man who has a message to deliver.

”Judy hopes you got her note long ere this, Mrs. Quentyns.”

”Her note--no; I have not received any,” replied Hilda.

”She wrote to you this morning, and put the note under the pin-cus.h.i.+on in your room.”

”How romantic and Judy-like!” said Quentyns suddenly. ”Quite the correct thing, according to the old-fas.h.i.+oned novels. When the heroine elopes she always leaves a note under the pin-cus.h.i.+on.”

”How do you do, Jasper? I did not notice you until this moment,” said Rivers. He gave the other man a sharp glance, which suddenly made him feel queer and small. ”The only thing old-fas.h.i.+oned that I notice about Judy,” he said, ”is her n.o.ble unselfishness. She has gone home because--because--I think you can both guess why; an explanation would only be disagreeable. She begged me to tell you, Mrs. Quentyns, that she meant to be really _perfectly_ happy at home, and she hoped you and Jasper would follow her example here. Poor little Giant Killer! she slew an enormous giant to-day, and there are few people I respect as I do that dear little soul. I saw her safely to the Rectory, as, when she came to me, I thought it best to humor what was more a n.o.ble inspiration than a child's whim. I will say good-night now.”

Hilda scarcely said a word while Rivers was speaking. When he left the room, however, she stood still for an instant, listening intently.

Jasper had gone out to see his friend into his hansom. Would he come back? He did for a moment.

”Don't sit up for me, Hilda,” he said; and there was a tone in his voice which caused her heart to sink down low, very low indeed.

She heard the door slam behind him, and then she knew that she was alone. The servants had gone to bed--to all intents and purposes she was absolutely alone in the silent house.

So Judy's sacrifice was in vain. Judy had thought, by absolutely sacrificing herself, that she could bring this husband and wife together. It was not to be.

Hilda fell on her knees and buried her burning face in the sofa cus.h.i.+ons.

”Oh, Judy, little Judy!” she sobbed. ”Oh, Judy, what shall I do? My pain is greater than I can bear.”

She knelt in this position for a long time. Her little sister's face was distinctly seen in her mental vision; Judy seemed surrounded by a sort of halo--but what of Jasper? Had all the love which united these two hearts vanished like a dream? Was he never coming back to her? Would he always misunderstand her? Oh, if she thought that, she would not stay with him--she would go back to the Rectory and to Judy, and forget her golden dream and turn back again to the old life. For three months she would have been a wife. She would forget that time. She would own to Jasper that she had made a mistake. She would be Hilda Merton once more.

Alas! alas! that could not be. Vows and ceremonies tied her. She had stood beside the altar and given herself away. There was no going back on that step. Jasper was not the Jasper of her dreams. He must have a small mind not to understand Judy, and she had married him because she thought his mind so big and his heart so great. After all, Judy was far greater than Jasper.

”My little Judy,” she murmured again, and then she sank down a pitiable, weak, inconsolable figure on the hearth-rug close to the expiring fire.

She thought over the scenes of the last night and longed to have them back again.